Taken
by IsmayDeVain
Summary: All Peter wanted was a good night's sleep. Too bad an old enemy had other plans. Now Peter is in a race against time to return what he stole even though he doesn't know what that is or there will be consequences. For a certain ex con.
1. Theory of a Deadman

It was the night before Christmas and all through the Burke house, not a creature was stirring and Peter was snoring. Elizabeth lay beside him, sleeping soundly with the plugs pushed far into her ears. The house was quiet, the night was calm and cool, the kind of night perfect for sleeping.

Until Peter's cell phone rang, illuminating the nightstand impatiently.

Peter continued snoring. It was Elizabeth, despite her ear plugs, that heard the mechanical ring tone. She groaned, rolled over, and nudged her husband with her palm against his shoulder.

"Peter, wake up," she murmured sleepily.

Peter snored on.

"Peter," Elizabeth groaned.

Her husband snored loudly and turned on his side away from her. Elizabeth groaned and kicked him hard in the leg.

"Peter!"

With a yelp, the slumbering man jerked awake and tumbled out of bed. Elizabeth chuckled until the covers were ripped off the mattress. She moaned at the chilly air that suddenly assaulted her. She pressed her face into her pillow and curled her body in. Peter pulled himself up off the floor and searched her out with groggy eyes.

"What'd ya kick me for?" he mumbled.

"Your phone," Elizabeth said with a yawn, "it was ringing."

Peter wiped his hand over his face and crawled back into bed, "I didn't hear anything."

"How could you," Elizabeth asked with a deep glare, "over that locomotive running through your mouth?"

"I don't snore, El."

"I have a video recording that says different."

Peter raised an eyebrow, "You recorded my snoring."

Elizabeth smiled sweetly, "But sweetie, you don't snore," she pointed to the phone, "Look at it. The call could have been important."

Peter sighed and lazily grabbed the phone off the night stand and flipped it open. The bright light hurt his eyes and he squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Just as he was able to read the name on the screen, his phone came to life.

"It's ringing," Peter said, bewildered.

Elizabeth groaned into her pillow, "Then answer it," she paused, "and give me back my damn covers."

Peter pressed the send button and put the phone to his ear, "Agent Burke, this better be good."

"Peter, it's Hughes."

"Sir," Peter frowned, "why are you calling me," he glanced at the clock, " at 2:37 in the morning?"

"We've got a situation, Peter," Hughes said, "Caffery's anklet just went off."

Peter was instantly awake, "Out of his radius?"

"No, it's been cut. Last location was a parking garage downtown."

Peter frowned, "What the hell was he doing out at this time of night?"

"Good question, I need you to find out and find him. Call Jones, he'll give you the exact location. He and Lauren are already on the scene."

"I'll be there in five, sir."

"Good."

Hughes hung up and Peter cursed under his breath. Elizabeth raised herself up on her elbow.

"What is it?"

"Neal's run," Peter said. He stood and went to his dresser as Elizabeth jerked upright.

"What? That's not possible!"

"Oh, it's possible," Peter said angrily, jerking his pants out of his dresser, "I new I shouldn't have gotten so comfortable with him! Damn it, this was bound to happen."

"Peter, it doesn't make sense."

"It makes perfect sense. Caffery is a criminal, always has been and probably always will be. He was just weaseling his way in, making me trust him so he could bolt!"

Elizabeth jumped out of bed and took Peter by the arms, "Peter, listen to me."

Peter, at his wife's calm touch and soothing tone, stopped ranting. He took a deep breath and stood perfectly still in the middle of the room.

"Neal wouldn't do this," Elizabeth said, "He didn't run when Kate was right in front of him, he didn't run with the Bible and he wouldn't run now. You know him, Peter."

"Do I?" Peter asked, "Or was it just another con?"

Elizabeth took his face in her hands, "It wasn't. He's innocent until proven guilty, Peter. Give him a chance."

Peter sighed, "I have to go."

He turned and grabbed his suit jacket lying on the chair. Elizabeth sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. Peter spun around and threw up his hands.

"Where the hell are my shoes!"

~*~

Lauren sighed and turned away from the forensic officers. She walked on unsteady legs back to the SUV. Jones stood at the open trunk with the laptop open in front of him. By the frown on his face and the deep lines of confusion on his forehead, she could tell he wasn't finding what he wanted.

"Problems?" she asked in a tired voice.

"Yeah," Jones said, "big ones. This doesn't add up."

"It does," Lauren said, "just not to the answer we want."

"Yeah," Jones agreed with a heavy sigh.

Lauren heard the echo of a car's engine and turned to watch Peter pull into the garage. He wasn't happy, or so she judged from the haggard expression and the way he slammed the door. He scanned the crowd of moving agents, spotted them and headed their way. Lauren hung her head.

"You going to tell him, or should I?" Jones asked.

"Let's draw straws," Lauren said.

Peter stopped in front of them, the picture of impatience, "Someone tell me what's going on, now."

Lauren looked up at Jones who dropped his head and dug his fingers into his eyes tiredly. Lauren closed her eyes briefly before squaring her shoulders and looking at her superior.

"We pulled up Caffery's record of movement for the past six hours," she said, "but there are some discrepancies."

"Discrepancies," Peter repeated, "What kind of discrepancies?"

Jones turned the laptop toward him, "Caffery was stationary from nine o'clock until midnight. Then he traveled south, seemingly in a car from the rate of travel. But then he stops and the tracker is cut."

"Where's the discrepancy?" Peter asked.

"He travels with the tracker for another mile," Lauren said, "then tossed it out the window."

"How do you know it was tossed?"

Lauren reached behind her into the trunk of the SUV and pulled out a plastic evidence bag containing the ruined tracker. She handed it to Peter.

"See the dents and scratches on the module? They seem to be caused by pavement."

Peter turned the tracker over in his hands, examining the scratch marks, when he suddenly froze. He looked up at Lauren.

"Is that…?"

She nodded, "There's more, Peter. Follow me."

Peter gulped, "More?"

He followed Lauren to where the forensic scientists buzzed and hummed with activity. She cut between them and stood beside a concrete pillar, hugging herself and looking away from the scene. Peter pushed past a scientist and gasped at the scene.

"What the hell?!"

He recognized Neal's coat, thick and warm. His stomach turned at the glistening blood soaking it. Speckles of blood littered the ground in a pattern and beside the coat was the fedora Peter had grown so used to seeing. He was horrified to see the rim blood stained.

"We think…" Lauren paused and swallowed hard, "we believe Neal's been…"

"Kidnapped," Peter murmured.

He knelt down and carefully picked up the hat, not caring that he wasn't wearing gloves and that he was breaking protocol. His hands tightened into fists and he turned to Lauren.

"We need to go to Neal's apartment."

~*~

Peter felt his stomach twist and his supper revolt as he walked into the apartment. It wasn't because the door was hanging on its hinges, really nothing more than splinters. It wasn't because he knew he was right and Neal had been attacked and taken.

It was because of the metallic stench filling the air. And the red coating the apartment.

"Oh god," Lauren gasped. She turned out of the apartment and dashed into the hallway. She barely made it to the potted plant in the corner before she lost her battle with her stomach.

Peter only wished he could do the same.

He walked through the apartment, stunned into a trance. He saw the over turned table and the splintered chairs. He saw the blood smears and handprints on the counter and tiled floor. He saw the dark puddles on the carpet, but it all seemed like a dream. Or a nightmare come to life.

"Agent Burke! We've got something!"

Peter dashed across the room to the TV where the agent stood. In his gloved hands, he held a transparent DVD case containing a single silver disc. Peter didn't miss the bloody smudges on the case.

"Was there a note?" Peter asked.

The agent shook his head, "No, sir."

Peter turned to the TV and said solemnly, "Play it."

The agent put the disc into the player and turned on the TV. Peter braced himself, sure he wasn't going to like what came next.

The screen remained black and Peter was beginning to wonder if the disc was blank when a hollow, haunting voice came from the speakers. It had been disguised mechanically and was undistinguishable as to sex or inflections.

"If you are watching this, Agent Burke, then you have likely discovered your pet is missing. No doubt you are wondering about his health given the massive amount of blood found on both scenes, as I'm sure you've discovered the tracker. But rest assured, the human can loose quite an amount of blood and survive, particularly if the blood is replenished."

Peter felt his anger swell. He wanted to yell at the disembodied voice, demand answers, but he knew it would be useless. So he let his anger simmer and listened.

"My demands are very simple, Agent Burke. I want what you stole from me. However, who I am and what it is exactly that I want, you will have to discover on your own. You see, your theft cost me a great deal of pain and I want you to suffer as well. And I know how noble and heroic you are, Agent Burke. You may claim disinterest in your pet con, but he is still a human life, one that will suffer until you return what you stole."

Peter stared at the black screen, resisting the strong urge to plunge his foot through the glass. He felt the eyes of all the agents in the room on him, but he didn't look at them. He could see something on the screen, the faintest of silhouettes outlined in the blackness. He focused on that image, trying to decipher it as the voice continued.

"You have one hour to find my name, Agent Burke. Three to return what was taken. If you do not meet these deadlines, he suffers."

The black screen was suddenly cast in light and Peter saw the silhouette was Neal, tied to a chair, head hanging limply under a single naked bulb. Blood stained the front of his shirt in a warped river, running down the front of his shirt to pool at the band of his pants. And IV pole equipped with a bag of blood stood next to him, the IV running down to his left arm. Peter stifled the gasp that burst forth, just barely. He heard Lauren exclaim something under her breath and the deep curse Jones uttered.

But Peter was transfixed on that image of Neal, so vulnerable and hurt, for reason that made no sense. He was horrified to see the blood was coming from his head, running down the right side of his face, down his neck and chest. Peter felt his nausea rise and churn.

The disembodied voice said, "Do you see, Agent Burke? Do not question my resolve."

Neal lifted his head only slightly and stared directly into the camera. Peter was caught by his expressive blue eyes and was surprised to see no fear lingering behind them. He stepped forward and it took everything he had to stay on his feet, to not drop to his knees right there, helpless and despaired.

"The countdown starts now, Agent Burke," his tormentor said, "I suggest getting to work. I'd hate to have to harm Mr. Caffery further."

And Neal, weak and in pain, groggy from blood loss, focused on his captor, turning his fearless eyes to where the voice was hidden and said in a quiet, confident voice, "Go to hell."

And the disc cut out.

Peter felt a small smirk pull at his lips and pride fill his heart. Lauren stepped beside him, uncertain and cautious. She turned terrified eyes to him.

"Sir?" she asked.

"Get this to forensics and analysis." Peter said, "Call the office and have Lisa pull every file I've worked."

"That's going to be a hell of a lot," Jones muttered as he pulled out his phone.

"When the hell did they have time to make this?" Peter asked, gesturing to the TV.

"Caffery was taken from here roughly around midnight," Lauren said, "but the tracker wasn't cut until one."

"They split up," Peter said, "Damn it, that's why they held onto the tracker for another hour, to send us on a wild goose chase. They tossed the tracker and his coat to throw us off the trail."

He turned to Lauren, "Finish up the scene," he said and turned on his heel, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Jones asked.

"To find Neal."

And by God, he would.

~*~

"You're going to regret this."

Neal jerked as his captor tightened the bonds around his wrist. His vision blurred and overlapped as he lifted his head. It seemed as if his neck suddenly lost all muscle function as his head flopped back against his shoulders. He felt long fingers clench his hair. He grunted as his head was jerked farther back.

"We'll see."

His head was released and he let out a sharp gasp as his chin touched his chest. He closed his eyes tightly as the footsteps echoed away from him. He heard the door shut and lock as the dead bolt slid into place. He sighed heavily.

"Any time now, Peter," he murmured, but he knew it was a hopeless wish.

Peter wouldn't find him so soon. Dimly, he wondered if that hour had even begun yet. Had they found the disc, watched it? He'd tried counting the minutes, seeking oblivion to escape his captors. He'd lost track a long time ago and hadn't started again.

All he knew was that his head was killing him and he had to keep fighting the intense need to vomit. More than likely he had a concussion. That was a given, considering the crowbar he'd seen coming for his head.

And he was tired. So tired. He remembered hearing somewhere that if you fell asleep with a concussion there was a risk you wouldn't wake up again. Neal wondered if given the circumstances that would be a bad thing.

But he knew he needed his strength, at least mentally. He couldn't think straight with his brains sloshing around his skull and his vision weaving and spinning the way it was. He needed rest. Just for a moment. One minute to collect himself.

Neal closed his eyes and gave into the oblivion calling his name.


	2. Staind

It was strange how he could feel every second tick past now that he was aware of time. He could feel that grain slide down the center of the hour glass, such a small opening, such a small amount of time, but it seemed so much bigger to him now. He'd taken it for granted, how fast time passed him by, and he'd give anything to multiply its quantity, to stall it or rewind it. He needed more time.

Peter was on the phone with Lisa before he even made it to the road. She picked up instantly.

"I've got a fourth of them in front of me," she said by way of greeting, "and four clerks are gathering the rest."

"Lisa, you're a God send."

"You can kiss me later," Lisa said, "How do you want to run through this?"

"Give me the name and crime," Peter said passing a truck, "I'm hoping something will pop out at me."

"I'm going to categorize them, three piles: certain, maybe and not a chance."

"You're an angel."

"First file, Ethan Marks, bond forgery, insurance fraud-"

"Marks was a flake. He's in prison."

"Not a chance, then. What about Charlie Masters?"

Peter bit his lip and thought back. Masters was far from a saint. In two of his art thefts, innocent people had been injured.

"He's in Rikers isn't he?"

"Says so. I haven't heard any reports about a release, but that doesn't mean he didn't get someone on the outside."

"Maybe pile." Peter turned the corner sharply and ignored the blare of horns cursing after him.

"Rachel Williams."

"She and her mother were doing pigeon drops. She ratted out on her own mother for an easier sentence. She's a sleaze ball but not the murder type."

"How do you know for sure?"

"I don't know anything for sure, but I'm pretty positive."

"Right, not a chance pile."

"Keep going. There has to be a distinguishing element. The kidnapper said I stole something from them."

"I can't imagine you stealing anything from a criminal," Lisa said.

"That's the problem. I never have stolen anything from anyone. I'm coming up on the building."

"Wha…bou…bert…Epp?"

"You're cutting out," Peter said as he drove into the parking garage.

He shut the phone and dashed to the elevator. As the door slid shut, he leaned his head against the cool metal and closed his eyes. The anger came back with a vengeance, accompanied by a giant helping of frustration. Peter slammed his open palm against the door and kicked it repeatedly.

He could feel the seconds sliding past and glanced at his watch. Forty five minutes left, three fourths of an hour. He had forty five minutes to find the name of a maniac.

Peter spun around and punched the elevator wall. Pain radiated from his knuckles up to his shoulder. He blew out from his nose and rubbed his smarting hand, checking for broken fingers.

"Damn it!" he cursed aloud.

The doors slid open two floors below his office. A plump woman in a cleaning uniform stood in the hall with wide eyes and opened mouth. One look at Peter sent her scurrying away with her cleaning cart.

Peter leaned his head back and stared at the fluorescent light above him. He would see light spots dancing in his vision later, but at the moment, all he saw was Neal, head bent, soaked in blood.

"Damn it," he muttered as he dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, "damn it all."

He spent the next two floors racking his brain. He replayed the words in his head, picking them apart, turning them over and upside down, but got no where. The doors open to his floor and he practically ran to the conference room. Lisa was leaning over a sloppy pile of papers, her cell phone in her hand. She glanced up at him, sighed and grabbed a stack of manila folders.

"Here," was all she said as she shoved them in his arms.

He went to the other end of the table and opened the first file. But all he saw were blurry letters all jumbled up in a foreign language. He rubbed his eyes, blinked rapidly, but the file may as well have been written in Greek.

"Agent Burke?" Lisa asked peering at him, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Peter said quickly, blinking again, "I'm fine."

She studied him, obviously not believing him, but she nodded, "Jones called. He said they are having the video analyzed. And forensics confirmed the blood on the tracker and hat was…" she looked down at the file and lightly fingered its corner, "it's definitely Neal's."

Peter looked up at her. He recognized the sad look on her face and the vacant stare of her eyes as she fiddled with the file. He stood and walked to her, placing his hand on the file.

"Lisa," he said softly, "are you too close to this?"

Her vacant eyes darkened as she slowly raised them to meet his, "Excuse me?"

"I need to know now," he said, "Will your emotions cloud your judgments on this case?"

She stared at him, her mouth parted slightly and disbelief written in her eyes. She snapped her mouth closed and swallowed hard. She closed her eyes, smirking humorlessly.

"It isn't me you want to ask that to," she said quietly.

Peter didn't say anything when suddenly his phone rang loudly in the tense room. Without looking away from Lisa, he pulled it out and flipped it open.

"Burke."

"Peter, what's happening?"

"Elle," Peter sighed. In the chaos, he'd forgotten to call her, "Honey, I-"

"Why are there a dozen agents here? They won't tell me anything and only now let me call you. Tell me what's going on."

"Sweetie, they're there to protect you." Peter said.

"Protect me from what?"

Peter sighed and took a deep breath, "From whoever kidnapped Neal."

He heard her small gasp and imagined her slowly sinking into the chair by the table, Satchmo quickly trotting to her, sensing something was wrong. He imagined the quiet that would surround her as the agents sent to guard her realized what she was hearing. Like him, they weren't good with women and emotions because they inevitably led one place.

"Peter, no."

Tears.

"He wants revenge on me," Peter said quickly. Stick to the facts and nothing else, he told himself. The job came first.

"On you? What could you possibly have done to him?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out. He demanded…well, I can't tell you that. All we know right now is that Neal was taken around midnight and he's being held until I find whatever it is this guy wants."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Nothing yet, but I'm not taking any chances. This guy wants to make it personal. He made that clear from what he said in the tape."

"The tape?"

"He left a tape for me."

"What was on it?"

Peter clenched his hands and his jaw tightened. He didn't want to worry her. He knew how affectionate she was over Neal, how much she worried. He didn't want to make it any worse than it already was.

At least that was what he was telling himself because admitting the truth would make him emotional. Admitting that he didn't want to think about that image of Neal, bloody and pale and bound, would ruin his objective outlook. And he couldn't do that.

"Peter," Elle said sternly, but he could still hear the tears choking her voice, "what was on that tape."

He said quietly, "It isn't good, Elle."

"Oh, God," she sobbed.

Peter closed his eyes. He could feel his emotions swelling in his stomach, rising to his chest and demanding to be released. He fought them back down, straightened his shoulders and swallowed hard.

"I'm going to find him, honey," he said solemnly, "and I'm going to catch the bastard that took him."

"You'd better," Elle said, "Damn it, Peter. Bring him home."

"I will, love."

He hung up, quietly pressing the button and staring at the screen of his cell phone. Black and sleek, reflective and innocent, much like the screen of the TV in Neal's apartment. A flash of Neal's face blinked in front of his eyes. Peter covered his eyes with his hand and looked away from the screen.

"Are you too close to this case?"

Peter raised his head and looked at Lisa. She faced him, her eyes gleaming and spiteful. His jaw clenched.

"Don't forget," Peter said lowly, "that I am your superior."

But Lisa didn't back down.

"My first day here," she said softly, "I was a wreck. I was nervous as hell, fresh out of the academy, a woman in a man's world, and scared to death. But it wasn't just the new job that was killing me. Because of the job and the training and the classes, my schedule was full to the brink and I didn't have a whole lot of free time."

"We don't have time to bond, Lisa," Peter said sharply, "We don't have time period."

"But you need to hear this," she said, "so make time."

Peter had never wanted to hit a woman more than he did at that moment.

"My mother was dying of cancer that year," she said, "and my way of dealing with it was to bury myself in work."

Peter felt his anger die down. Maybe he would only pinch her.

"And she died near Christmas only I didn't get to say goodbye," Lisa fought back tears, "She'd been gone a month when I got here. I was all alone in a big city, no friends, no support and no one in the office even noticed."

Peter looked up at her.

"Except Neal," she whispered, "He helped me through the hardest time in my life. He was a perfect gentleman and a great friend. So yes, I am close to this case. Yes, my emotions are driving me on this, but damn it, I will not stop until he is home safe. So if you want to penalize me for giving a damn, be my guest. But at least I don't hide it."

She spun away and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Peter demanded.

"To get more files," she said without looking back, "If you want to fire me for insubordination do it after this case. I have a friend to find."

Peter watched her disappear. He placed both hands flat on the table and leaned heavily against it. Abruptly, he grabbed one of the rolling chairs and tossed it against the wall. He heaved heavily, staring at the crack in the plaster.

Silently, Peter turned back to stack of files and began reading.

~*~

Slowly with no visible movement, he rubbed his wrists up and down.

He kept his head down. The bulb was still burning brightly in the center of the room, but its light was faulty. It illuminated him perfectly but cast the corners in shadow. He had no way of knowing if there were cameras watching his movements. He couldn't chance it.

With his hair, unruly from mistreatment, falling across his face, the small flinches and subtle winces went undetected by his captor. And his work on the ropes continued to be in secret.

He closed his eyes as his thoughts turned to the man. He hadn't seen his face, or heard his real voice for that matter. Always the mechanical dialogue. He hated it, hated not having something to recognize. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was ruthless.

He slowly raised his eyes, careful not to raise his head, and looked to the two stains on the concrete. The first was small, no bigger than the span of his hand. That had been the woman. He remembered being blond, but it was hard not to see her with out the flecks of red staining her bangs, the perfect circle between her eyes. It was hard not to hear her soft gasp ring through his ears, not to imagine the way she crumbled so delicately, the blood seeping slowly from the death blow to her forehead and pooling on the floor.

Then there had been the man. He'd been worse, as hard as that seemed. The man had stared in shock as his partner fell, dead beside him. He gagged on her blood as he wiped it off his cheek and stared at it on his hand. And then the second shot came, soft and silent with the silencer, but still so loud in the quite room, echoing like a clash of thunder.

The bullet struck him in the chest, just beside the heart. He fell to his knees, clasping his hands over the wound, trying to stem the blood flow, but there was just so much of it. It ran through his fingers, down his shirt. He fell on his side and the man who'd killed them both just walked away, up a set of wooden stairs to a door. He left the wounded man there to die.

And Neal had to watch.

He watched as his body tried to curl in on the pain. He heard the man's gasping breath, heard him gurgle as the blood filled his lungs, his throat, his mouth. He tried to look away. The woman had the mercy of a quick death, but the man had to suffer. He was drowning in his own blood. He heard the man gasp and choke and then the loudest silence he'd ever heard filled the room.

He dared to look back at the man and found the dead, gray eyes staring back at him, almost pleading with him. But it wasn't for help. He was pleading for forgiveness.

Neal swallowed as he looked away from the two stains the man and woman had left behind.

Briefly, he wondered what kind of stain he would leave behind.

The door opened. He heard the hinges creak and the knob groan. He heard the heavy feet fall on the stairs and counted each one. He reached fourteen when the footsteps changed and his captor was now walking on the concrete floor. Neal still didn't look up.

He stopped rubbing his wrists.

Slowly, the man approached him. He stood directly under the light bulb, his massive shadow falling over Neal. At least Neal now knew that his captor needed to go on a diet.

The man grabbed his chin and lifted his head roughly. Neal opened his eyes, but as before the man was wearing a black mask over his face. The man tilted his chin to the side and examined the wound. Neal knew the wound had closed. The blood on the side of his face had begun to congeal and was itching like crazy. But an itchy face was the least on his long list of problems.

The man dropped his hand and let Neal's chin fall back to his chest. The rough hand came back and lifted the tail of his shirt on his left side. Neal closed his eyes. He detested violence and blood. Especially when the violence was towards him and the blood was his own.

The man grunted and pulled out a roll of medical tape and a package of gauze from his shirt pocket. He tore the bloody one off of Neal's side and ignored the painful hiss that escaped his captive. With the same horrible bedside manner, the man tore the gauze open with his teeth and taped it to the wound. Then he pulled back, tapped the blood bag and took out the IV. He stepped back, satisfied that his captive wasn't going to die.

Neal didn't bother to say thank you. He really wished that his new enemy would just leave him alone. But his captor had other ideas as he pulled out a cell phone. One Neal recognized as his own.

The man put the phone to his ear and waited for it to connect.

"Hello, Agent Burke. Time's up."


	3. The Call

Peter reached for his phone as he tiredly rubbed his blurry eyes. Beside him was a small stack of files he though had possible leads. In front of him were at least three dozen more files to sort through. The phone sang and vibrated as he plucked the small device off the table and pressed it to his ear.

"Burke," he sighed, leafing through the papers in the file.

"Hello, Agent Burke. Time's up."

Peter stood abruptly and spun toward the clock, "No, no, you're wrong! I have thirty minutes!"

The man chuckled dryly, "I started the clock, Burke. I never said when the hour started."

"You bastard!" Peter cursed, "That isn't fair! I haven't had time to-"

"Calm down, Burke," the man said, "This isn't a game of battleship. So tell me, have you discovered my name?"

"No, but if you give me more time-"

"An extension," the man said chuckling, "Not a problem. Got a time estimate?"

"I don't know. I-"

"Come on, Burke. It isn't a hard question. Twenty minutes? Thirty?"

"Thirty," Peter said. He frowned. Something didn't feel right, "Why are you-"

"Not a problem, Burke. Just let me ask Mr. Caffery if he's alright waiting."

Peter felt his heart seize and his eyes widen. He lunged forward, splaying his hand over the file of papers and scattering them over the floor. It was a useless move, but it was instinctive and he couldn't deny the need to act.

"Don't!" he cried hoarsely.

"Peter?"

"Neal," Peter said quietly, "What is he…are you okay?"

"Yeah, sort of. Look, Peter, whatever he wants don't give it to him."

"What? Neal, what're you-"

"Just don't, Peter. Promise me."

"Neal-"

"Promise me, damn it."

"I can't do that, Neal!"

Peter didn't understand the desperate tone in Neal's voice. He didn't know why he so urgently wanted Peter to promise the impossible. If Peter could give the madman what he wanted he would do it in a heartbeat. If his heart ever started beating again.

"Peter-Aarrgghh!"

"Neal!"

His partner screamed again, stopping abruptly and groaning loudly. Peter curled his fingers into a fist, leaving grooves in the wood. His shoulders shook with tension as he closed his eyes and tried to even out his breathing. At this rate, if his heart ever started beating in its regularly rhythm, he was bound to have a heart attack.

"Thirty more minutes, Burke," the man said over the phone, "I don't think I need to tell you what happens if you need more time."

"You sick son of a bitch. What the hell did you do to him?"

"Nothing that can't be repaired. It went clean through, I swear."

Peter felt the blood drain from his face and the anger beat furiously in his ears.

"You bastard! When I find you I swear to God, I'm going to-"

"What, Burke? What are you and God going to do? Kill me?"

Peter clenched his teeth, "The thought crossed my mind."

"Do me a favor. When you come for me, gun cocked and loaded, don't hide behind your badge like before. Come all out. I'll be waiting."

The click echoed in his ears, hollow and menacing. Slowly, he sank into his chair and dropped his hand to his lap, as if it weighed more than lead. He stared at the clear, black screen of his phone, hearing Neal's pain filled scream play over and over again in his head.

Lisa walked in seconds later, a stack of files in her arms. She glanced up at Peter and froze.

"Oh, no," she whispered, "Don't tell me-"

"We've got thirty more minutes," Peter said softly. He looked up and met her eyes, "Not a second more."

~*~

Neal felt the blood slide down his arm and it was most disconcerting. To feel your own blood, your life's very essence dripping down your chest to stain your shirt and skin was a nightmare come true. His stomach clenched as nausea rolled through him. He would not throw up. He couldn't afford to.

He shifted his wrist, felt the ropes grind together and scratch against his already raw skin, and grunted. The needle moved and his skin tore as it slipped away. Warm, sticky blood coated the back of his hand and while under normal circumstances, he'd be freaking out about it, Neal found himself smiling.

He glanced up at the stairs, his eyes darting under the veil of his dark hair. The tiniest fraction of light blinked out from under the door. He could see the shadows of the man's heavy feet as they paced back and forth upstairs. Neal clenched his teeth.

Stupid man and his stupid revenge plot that made no sense at all because said stupid man refused to give him any freaking clues. What was he supposed to do? Suddenly develop telepathic powers and read the guy's mind? That wasn't likely.

Stupid blood loss, making him rant in his own head and feel ridiculous.

Neal pulled on the ropes and twisted his right hand counter clockwise. He smiled wide, not bothering to hide it from who ever may or may not have been watching. There was a fourth of an inch between his wrist and the ropes.

Freedom was only a twist away. But the question was, what was he going to do once he was free?


	4. Breaking Benjamin

Ten minutes.

Nine minutes and forty five seconds.

Nine minutes thirty seconds.

Peter tore his eyes away from the clock. He couldn't find it. Whatever this man was looking for, he couldn't find it and Neal was going to pay the horrible price for it in nine and a half minutes. He glanced back at the clock.

Nine minutes and ten seconds.

Would the kidnapper give him another time extension? What price would it cost Neal this time around? A broken bone? A bullet to a leg? A beating? Peter didn't want to think about all of the different ways a man could be made to suffer.

Or would the kidnapper call it quits? Would he simply kill Neal over the phone and give directions to the body, move on to another target until he finally got whatever the hell he was searching for? It was only a game to him anyway. Neal was just another game piece that could be sacrificed for the victory.

But Peter still had no idea who he was dealing with or what kind of personality was controlling this fiasco. Was the kidnapper a killer or just a desperate freak afraid to go all the way with his threats? There was a difference between hurting a man and taking a life so blatantly.

However, judging from the crime scenes and the phone calls this person was deadly serious and was willing to do whatever it took to get what they wanted. The kidnapper was a grade A psychopath, Peter would bet his badge on it.

"_Do me a favor. When you come for me, gun cocked and loaded, don't hide behind your badge like before…"_

Adrenaline shot through Peter like lightning. He reached for his badge and pulled it out, staring at the intricate surface and small lettering. Those words seemed to trigger exactly what he needed to know. The problem was, like a word on the tip of his tongue he just couldn't say, the memory was just out of reach.

There was something more than just a normal _you put me in jail and now you'll pay_ vendetta going on. It was more personal than that. Why had the kidnapper taken Neal of all people? Why not El or Jones? There were people closer to him than Neal to use as leverage. So why take his partner?

"…_then you've likely discovered your partner is missing…"_

"_Calm down, Agent Burke. This isn't a game of battleship…"_

And suddenly, Peter knew exactly who he was looking for. And exactly what he wanted from him.

It was the strangest feeling. Almost like a dream, but not quite. Like the edge of one, asleep but awake enough to understand, to control what was being dreamt. But the strangest part about it was that he wasn't in control. There was absolutely nothing he could do.

It was strange, being on the edge of consciousness.

He tried to lift his head, to shake it so the hair would move out of his line of vision, but his body had declared mutiny. He looked up only to see complete darkness and wondered why he bothered.

The blood on his arm had clotted. And wasn't that just a wonderful thought that made his stomach churn in disgust. His blood had hardened and congealed over the hole that wasn't supposed to be part of his anatomy to keep more blood from coming out. Oh yeah, he was going to hurl any moment now. Probably reopening the wound his blood had tried so hard to clot.

There was something he was supposed to be doing. A thought, a tiny voice whispered in urgency at the back of his mind. It was pleading with him to do something, but the blood loss had taken its toll and his reasoning ability along with it. He couldn't count his fingers much less remember what he was supposed to be doing.

Tiredly, he let his eyes droop and hoped Peter found him soon.

The creak of rusted hinges and thud of heavy foot falls made his heart jump. He lifted his head wearily while panic flooded his veins. In the harsh light, he could barely make out the silhouette of the overly large man as he made his way down the stairs. He was carrying something, an object that seemed familiar but Neal's lazy mind couldn't place. Neal watched as the fat man placed the thing down in front of him then climbed on top of it.

A stool. Duh. He heard metal scraping metal as the burnt out light bulb was removed and a fresh one took its place. The light was too bright on Neal's eyes and he had to turn away. The fat man kicked the stool out of sight and took his place behind Neal. One large hand clapped him on his good shoulder as he leaned his face close to Neal.

"Ready to play?" he whispered.

Neal turned his head away from the foul breath that smelled of cigarettes and booze. The man laughed harshly and pulled out his cell phone. As his clumsy fingers pressed the buttons, he smiled.

"Let's hope your buddy has found what I want," he said, putting the phone to his ear, "or you'll be in even more pain."

Neal let his head slump forward. He needed his strength to warn Peter. And what strength he had was dwindling.

"Good evening, Agent Burke," the man said, "Have you discovered my name yet?"

Peter cringed, locking his fingers tightly around the phone. His jaw was clenched tightly and ached from the strain. But his minor discomfort was nothing compared to what Neal was going through. The thought of his partner in pain only made his anger rise to knew levels. And made his jaw clench tighter.

"Give it up, Eppes," Peter ground out, "It's over."

"_You think so, Burke? Cause I've got a guest here that says otherwise."_

"I know who you are now, Eppes. It's only a matter of time before I track you down and haul your ass in. Make it easier on everybody and-"

"_Easy, huh? You think Benny had it easy when you came after him? He had a wife and two sons waiting on him at home, one with a heart defect waiting on a donor list a mile long. You sure as hell didn't make it easy on him."_

"You and your partner were scamming people out of their entire life's savings. What happened to Benny was unfortunate and I'm sorry it went down the way it did. But that was six years ago, Eppes."

Eppes chuckled mirthlessly, _"Unfortunate. Sounds exactly like something you'd say, Burke. You know what else is unfortunate?"_

Peter immediately regretted his words. He wanted to snatch them back, rewind those few short minutes. Panic filled his stomach and made bile rise to the back of his throat. He could only imagine what Eppes meant.

"Eppes, don't do anything you'll-"

"_This is unfortunate."_

And the next sound that came over the line, clear as a bell ringing over the church chapel, would haunt Peter to his deathbed. He fell to his knees, leaning heavily against the table edge. He heard Neal scream out in pain, heard the string of curses that followed, heard the tears choking his friends words, but that sound echoed over and over in his head, drowning out everything else.

He closed his eyes, but still he heard the sound of the bone snapping.

"_Sorry, Burke. That was unfortunate and I'm sorry it happened the way it did."_

"You god damned son of a-"

"_Finish that sentence and I'll break his other wrist."_

It took every ounce of will he had to swallow the word on the edge of his tongue. Even more so to swallow his pride and anger. Several heavy breaths later, he trusted his mouth enough to speak without losing control.

"What do you want?" he asked softly.

"_I want Benny back, you bastard."_

The call ended as Eppes' words sank in. Peter let his hand drop limply to the floor, the phone resting uselessly in his palm. He stared forward, denial and pain rushing through his body. He knew now with certainty that he would never get Neal back alive. There was no way he could bring Jimmy to Eppes.

Because Benny was dead. By Peter's bullet.


	5. Five Finger Death Punch

"Peter."

He looked up from his hands. He sat against the wall just below the window, knees up and head down. He had been staring at the blood there, the blood he couldn't see, but knew was there. Lisa stood over him, her shadow wavering as she tried to figure out what to do. Finally, she dropped to her knees and gently touched his knee.

"Peter, who's Benny?"

Peter met her eyes and slowly looked away, to the face that haunted his nightmares.

"It wasn't a hard case," he said softly, "It wasn't. Two men, Robert Eppes and Benny Favor, were playing a game with each other. They set up the frauds like a game board, like Battle Ship. They took turns taking hits and if they sunk the other's battle ship, they got the big pay off. We caught them, set up a take down on Benny Favor's next hit. And we went in…"

_Black smoke and dark water. He remembers the alley, running between the warehouse units on the docks. The night, black as pitch, was silent, eerily so for the city that never sleeps. He should have taken it for what it was, a bad omen._

_He remembers Benny's form running and stumbling through the alley, over the vents and under the only streetlight, the amber lights glowing warmly. Benny turns, reaching under his coat, to his belt._

_He raises his gun, shouts a warning. Benny pulls his gun, shaking, he aims it. He shouts again, warns Benny desperately because he doesn't want to kill somebody's husband, some kid's father. But Benny doesn't lower the gun and he has no choice but to fire. Two gun shots echo down the alley, but only one body falls._

"I tried to keep him alive."

"You did all you could, Peter," Lisa said.

She leaned against the wall beside her superior and raised her knees. Peter pressed his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Tell that to Neal," he said, "This was never about returning anything. This was about retribution."

Lisa nodded, "So what now?"

"I don't know."

"That's your answer, 'I don't know'?"

"What do you want from me, Lisa?"

"I want you to get off your sorry ass and save Neal."

Peter snapped his head towards her, "Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said. Get. Off. Your. Ass. I can't make it any clearer than that."

Peter surged to his feet, "Do not talk to me like that, agent. I am your superior and you are-"

Lisa stood, "Superior my ass. Your superior only in your ability to give up. Maybe in the pity party but not in much else."

"I do not give up," Peter nearly shouted, "I haven't given up on anything."

"Then where the hell is Neal?"

"I don't know!"

"Like I said," Lisa said, "you give up way too easy."

His anger was at the boiling point. From the moment he'd seen the first crime scene through the DVD message and phone calls, he'd kept his anger at a manageable level, simmering below the surface where no one would see it. But the knowledge that he could do nothing for Neal and Lisa's sharp words sent his anger boiling over.

He stepped forward, his stance intimidating. Lisa's eyes widened fractionally as she stepped back, pressing her back against the window pane. Peter leaned in close, anger seeping off of his body as he met her eyes.

"I am going to find Neal," he said lowly, "I am going to bring him home, alive. And when I get back I am writing you up for a dozen different reasons."

Lisa tilted her head down, never letting her gaze waver, "After you find Neal."

Peter didn't answer, didn't even nod. He turned, snatched his cell phone off the table, and left the conference room. Lisa watched him go. Only when she heard the elevator doors slide shut did she allow herself to smile.

_Men_, she thought, _such emotionally driven creatures._

_

* * *

_

In times like this, he doesn't worry. Not that these types of things happen a lot, him getting kidnapped. But, then again, his life had been much safer on the other side of the law. He'd never had nearly as many guns aimed at him when he was working against the FBI. Still, in the rare times like this, he doesn't worry.

He knows Peter will show up.

Eventually.

He only hoped he would come before Neal turned into a stain on the concrete. Like the woman and man. Not for the first time, he wondered what his captor had done with the bodies. Had he thrown them in the river, like trash? Or had he buried them, like the human lives they had been? Granted, they had attacked, injured, and kidnapped him. But he could hardly hold it against them now that they were dead.

The Fat man, on the other hand. He could hold everything against him.

He didn't spend his time thinking of ways for revenge. Neal wasn't stupid. He wasn't about to waste what little mental ability he had left on mundane day dreams that he would never see come to light anyhow. He knew there were only two options for Fat Man. Death or prison, because there was no way Peter was going to allow him to escape. Whether he made it in time to save Neal or not.

No, Neal spent his time concentrating on sawing those damn ropes. Slowly, up and down. He moved his arms, careful not to jostle his wrist or the clot that had formed on his shoulder. It hurt, but pain had become a constant in his life over the past few hours. Pain meant life, and he very much wanted to live.

So he moved his hands, up and down, down and up. And he thought about Peter coming for him. He did both, even as he bowed his head, let the first of few tears fall, and prayed.

* * *

Robert picked up the gun and key. He turned the dead bolt and opened the door, staring into the darkness for a moment before stepping down the first four steps. Now he could see his prisoner slumped in his seat.

He supposed he should have felt something. Hate. Anger. Pity even, but Robert didn't feel anything when he looked at the man he had tortured for so many endless hours. Nothing at all. Which was all the same. He was nothing more than a tool to Robert, and one hardly felt any emotion towards a wrench, did they?

No, he felt nothing. Which made it all the easier to raise his arm and take aim of the man's head, bent pitifully over his chest.

Robert pulled out the cell phone and pressed a number as he raised it to his ear. After the second ring, Burke answered. He felt all the emotion he needed to then.

"_Eppes, listen to me. I know you don't want to kill Neal. You're not a killer, Eppes."_

He wasn't once. Back when he was six years younger, when he had Benny by his side, when he used to be Robbie never Robert. He didn't used to be a killer, never thought he would be capable of staring someone in the face and pulling the trigger and feeling nothing at all.

But he was six years older now. Benny wasn't by his side and never would be again. And he wasn't Robbie any more.

"I thought you would want to hear it," Robert said softly. It amazed even him how disinterested he sounded when really all he wanted to do was tear Burke's throat out.

"_No, Eppes. Listen, please-"_

Robert turned the phone away from his ear, steadied his hand, and pulled the trigger.

He watched the man jerk, the chair rock and fall back with a dull thud. The IV pole wavered and clattered to the concrete. Then silence filled the air.

Robert turned the phone to his ear, "You'll find him in the basement of Benny's old house."

They weren't memorable or witty, but they were the last words Robert said to Burke as he closed the phone and walked up the stairs. He shut the door, sat at the table in the kitchen and pulled out the picture.

He stared at it, as if it weren't him as his twelve year old self standing next to Benny on a hot summer's day. The orphanage had taken them to the water park, a rare treat they never had again. Not with their lives, not with their tragedies. In the photo, he was Robbie, innocent and naïve but wiser than he should have been.

He touched Benny's face, and wished he could say good bye to his brother, knowing where he was headed was not where Benny went six years ago.

Placing the key on top of the picture, Robert pressed the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.


	6. Lifehouse

Neal sat on the end of the dock, his slacks rolled to his knees so that his bare toes could grace the water. His usually well kept hair was disheveled and falling with the soft breeze. His jacket lay beside him, the tie placed neatly on top of it. He smiled into the summer wind and relaxed.

"What do you think?"

He looked down at the young girl beside him. Her cheeks were rosy from the sun and her golden curls danced beneath the rich sunlight. She looked up at him with wide, blue eyes and smiled. Her small toes hung over the edge of the dock but didn't nearly reach the water. She didn't seem to mind, only played with the fringe of her sun dress.

"I'm not sure," he said, "What should I think?"

She giggled, "I don't know, silly. That's why I asked."

It didn't bother Neal that he was sitting on a dock next to a four year old he didn't know. Or that the horizon spread all around them in a never ending white so bright it was blinding. There was only Neal and the water and the cute little girl.

"Where are you gonna go?" she asked.

"Go?"

She nodded, "You can't be in both. You have to be here or there, not in between."

Neal looked out at the purest water he'd ever seen and dipped his toes farther down, "It's nice in the in between."

She grinned, "Yeah, but here or there is better."

He looked down at her, "How?"

"One or the other," she said, "Here has one and there has the other. So you have to choose here or there."

"I can't just stay?"

She shook her head, curls bouncing, "One needs you and the other waits for you. You have to decide."

Neal sighed and looked at the never ending white, "Here or there."

"There will always be there and the other will always wait. But here…"

Neal nodded, "Yeah, I think I get it."

She smiled, "Knew you would."

She jumped up, stood on her tip toes and kissed his cheek. Then she turned and skipped down the dock, sundress twirling around her. Neal watched her go until the white engulfed her, then turned back to the water. He took in a breath of pure air and let it out with a whisper.

"Here."

* * *

Peter came to the house as dawn was breaking. The shutters hung off their hinges and the stairs caved beneath his feet as he ran as fast as he could up the stairs. He ran fast, knowing he would never get there in time. The gun had gone off ten minutes earlier. A man could bleed out in less than three minutes. His lungs could fill with blood and suffocate him in less than five. If the bullet went through the brain, there was no time at all.

Peter ran through the living room, past the dining room and into the kitchen. He saw Robert Eppes lying across the table, gun on the floor and a hole in his head. His dark red blood congealing on the old photo beneath him. A pulse of anger shot through Peter. He had wanted to pull that trigger, and he wasn't sure if that thought repulsed him more or the fact that he felt no regret over another man's death.

Then he saw the door to the basement, slightly ajar, leading into a tomb.

The adrenaline evaporated from his veins and Peter suddenly felt very tired. He shuffled forward, grasped the knob of the door and took in a deep breath. He counted the steps as he descended into the darkness. There were thirteen. How fitting.

When he reached the bottom, he looked up and saw the naked bulb hanging in the room. The I.V. stand beside the over turned chair. The light from the solitary bulb illuminated the crumpled figure beside the chair and the black ink pooling beneath him. Peter felt his knees give a little as he stepped forward.

"Neal?"

"He can't hear you."

His hand was at his holster as he turned, but it wasn't quick enough. The bat came down hard on his wrist. He felt something snap and cried out as he dropped the gun. The bat came again this time at his stomach and he dropped with the hit, all of the air knocked out of his lungs. He rolled over, momentarily blinded by the light and saw his attacker.

He was tall and lanky, deathly pale and sickly. He held the bat in his left hand, the right one rubbing the spot above his heart. His sunken, hollow eyes were dark and glared at him with a hatred so deep it sent a cold shiver down Peter's spine. Clutching his injured wrist to his chest and wary of his bruising ribs, Peter rose to his knees.

"Who are you?"

The young man smiled darkly, "You'll never know. You're gonna die, never knowing why."

The man swung the bat again, but Peter was ready this time and rolled away from the swing at his head. He kicked out at his attacker's knees. The man fell heavily to the floor, already panting and wheezing for breath. Peter saw his gun lying only a few feet away and scrambled for it, but the man was faster than he expected and swung again for his exposed ribs. Peter rolled away from the attack and from his gun. On his back now, the man took advantage and straddled Peter's chest, pressing the bat against the agent's throat.

With his good hand, Peter pushed against the bat, desperate to get a decent breath in, but he wasn't strong enough. The pain from his wrist stole what little breath he had when he tried to use it. It wasn't enough. Black spots were forming in his vision as he stared up at his nameless killer.

And then there was a shadow and a dull thud as the I.V. stand connected with the man's head. His attacker rolled off of him, howling with rage and pain, the bat clattering against the concrete. Peter rolled on his side, coughing and hacking as he tried to claim breath. He heard the sound of a body hitting the ground, then something cold and familiar was being pushed into his hand as he attacker got to his knees and raised the bat above his head like a sword, ready to drop with the killing blow. This time, Peter was faster. Double tap, next to the heart and the man dropped, dead before he hit the dirty concrete.

Finally able to breathe normally, Peter saw the man, so young, lying beneath the swinging bulb and sighed with relief. Confused, he turned and got to his knees. The I.V. stand lay not far from his feet and just beside that was Neal, lying on his side covered in blood and staring at him with hooded eyes and an impossible smile on his face.

"Knew," Neal whispered.

Shaking the shock of the situation off to be dealt with later, Peter crawled on his knees and one hand to Neal's side. His hand hovered over his broken friend for precious seconds, afraid that if he touched him something else would break. There was blood every where, so much of it. Coating the side of his head and neck, staining the collar of his shirt and the skin beneath it, soaking the right shoulder and arm and dripping down the his fingers. And, God, his wrist, so swollen and black and blue.

"Neal," Peter whispered, voice cracking on that single world.

"Pet'r," Neal mumbled, moving his bloody arm and grazing Peter's knee with his finger tips. A shadow of a smile graced his pale face, eye lids drooping even farther down, "was you. Here."

The weak words forced Peter to take action. He'd called for back up before coming, calling for an ambulance with foolish hope. They would be coming soon. They'd be here, but would it be in time? Peter wasn't sure. Neal seemed to be barely holding on. Overwhelmed with the relief of finding him alive and with the fear of losing him still, Peter reached down and gathered Neal into his arms. It startled him how limp Neal's body was, his head lolling over Peter's arm. Peter ignored the pain of his own injuries, seemingly minor to what Neal had been put through.

"I'm here, Neal," Peter whispered, "It'll be alright."

He pressed Neal's face to his chest, cupping his friend's jaw and pressing his fingers to find a pulse. It was there, faint and fast and fading, but there. He held onto the pressure point and closed his eyes as he dropped his chin to the top of Neal's head.

"Won't go there," Neal mumbled, "stay. Here."

The ramblings made little sense to Peter and for a moment he worried about brain damage. But what did brain damage matter if he was going to die any way? There was so much blood, so much damage to his body. How much could a man take before his body simply gave in, no matter how strong the resolve to live was?

"Stay, Neal," Peter begged, "please."

Neal's eyes fell shut, fluttering as they fought to stay open. His breaths, short and shallow, slowed and he seemed to fall into Peter.

"Kay," he whispered.

Peter felt the tears forming behind his eyes and let them fall. With one hand on Neal's throat and the other over his friend's heart, Peter closed his eyes and said the words again and again. He knew Neal, already unconscious, couldn't hear him, but then he wasn't talking to Neal. His face tilted to the ceiling, he called out his three word prayer over and over again until the flashing lights of red and blue filled the outside world and running feet trampled through the house. And still, Peter prayed.


	7. Angels & Airwaves

**Angels & Airwaves**

It wasn't a dock this time, but the shore line, the whitest sand he'd ever seen being graced by the bluest water and white, white all around. He stood on the beach just short of the wet sand the surf touched. Hands in his pockets, wind making his white shirt and dark hair dance, he watched the little girl playing in the water. She splashed the water high, the droplets sparkling like diamonds.

The girl turned and waved at him, giggling as she twirled and danced in the water. He smiled back at her. Something fluttered in his chest as he watched Kate, beautiful Kate dressed in white come up behind the girl and splash water on her. The girl giggled and the war was on. Neal laughed as he watched them in the water, but he never moved from the shore.

Suddenly, they stopped, Kate on her knees with wet hair clinging to her face, holding the girl with damp curls in front of her. They smiled at him, two beautiful faces caught forever in a moment of perfection. His heart stuttered when he saw their eyes, the same eyes staring back at him. He knew exactly who she was, that beautiful little girl and a part of him ached.

But _there_ would always be there and they would always wait. So he blew them a kiss and turned on his heel to come back to _here_, where he was needed, where he belonged. If only until he could make it to _there_.

* * *

Three bruised ribs, one cracked, and one fractured wrist. At most, he would wear the cast for four weeks. The other injuries would fade over time, the bruises and breaks, but the pain was still going to be there.

"You found him, Peter. Don't be so hard on yourself."

Peter glanced at El and nodded, returning his gaze to Neal. The machines beeped and whooshed and made other noises he couldn't put a name to, but Neal still slept. El meant well. She only wanted to reassure him, make him ease the guilt off of his shoulders just a little. But nothing changed the fact that Neal was here solely because of him. His old case, his mistake, his bullet, his vendetta. And Neal was the one paying the price of a grudge six years old.

El kissed his cheek and headed home to feed and walk Satchmo. Peter sat and waited. What else was there to do? Processing the scene, collecting evidence, filling out paper work- it all seemed so pointless. What mattered was lying two feet in front of him connected to a dozen different machines as his body tried to recover at least as many injuries.

Skull fracture, severe concussion, laceration to the head requiring a dozen and a half stitches, knife wound in the right shoulder deflected off the bone also requiring a healthy amount of stitches, gunshot wound to the same shoulder requiring surgery to remove the bullet and too many stitches to count, and one broken left wrist needing surgery, two pins, and more stitches to fix. And Neal had yet to wake up after falling unconscious in the basement.

Like Peter's injuries, Neal's wounds would eventually heal, but that pain would still be there. When he lifted his arm too fast. When he looked in the mirror and saw the scar on the side of his head. When he moved his wrist wrong. Neal would never say anything, of course, but Peter would see the pain he tried to mask, the memory he tried to forget, and then Peter would feel the pain.

"God, Neal. I'm so sorry."

A soft knock on the door followed by soft foot falls came from the door way. Peter didn't look away from Neal's face as Lisa made her way to the other side of Neal's bedside. He didn't acknowledge her, but she didn't seem to mind. She leaned down and tenderly kissed Neal's cheek. Her light hair fell like a veil across their faces and Peter saw her lips moving, whispering words only she could hear.

"I wasn't there."

Lisa straightened and looked at him. Three days of bedside vigil had not been kind to him. He had yet to shave, and his eyes were red, heavy with exhaustion. He wasn't looking at her as he spoke, so she stayed quiet.

"He needed me, and I wasn't there." Peter lifted his eyes to hers, "How the hell do you get past that?"

She thought back to her own mother, dying in her bed and Lisa half way across the country. Her mother needed her, and she hadn't been there, hadn't bothered to even call. She turned back to Neal and smiled softly.

"You have a second chance, Peter. Not many of us get that," she said and looked back at Peter, "You want to know how you get past that guilt, that pain? You find a friend, pour out your soul, and hold on tight."

Peter looked back at Neal. Slowly, he slid his hand under Neal's limp fingers and squeezed them gently. Lisa smiled as she lifted a necklace over her head, kissed the pendant, and placed it on the table beside the bed. She rounded the bed and placed a delicate hand on Peter's shoulder.

"And no matter what, you don't let a day go by without letting them know exactly how you feel."

Peter looked up at her, smiled sadly and nodded. She headed for the door but stopped short.

"By the way," she said, "don't worry about writing me up for all of those offenses."

Peter turned in his chair, mouth hanging open. He hadn't remembered that. Now that he thought about it, he probably wouldn't write her up at all. But there was a glimmer in her eyes that stopped him from telling her that.

"I resigned this morning," she said, grinning, "I'll see you around, Burke."

And with that she was gone. Peter stared after her, contemplating her words, before standing and retrieving the necklace she had left behind for Neal. The gold pendant the size of a quarter pictured a lily blossom. The words _vuelve, vuelve _were embossed on the back. Peter rubbed the pendant, then placed it in Neal's palm, closing the fingers around the pendant.

And then he waited.

* * *

Elizabeth made a stop on her way out of the hospital. The chapel was simple, a quaint little thing decorated with one stained glass window at the front and bouquets of flowers at the ends of the pews. She sat in the first row and bowed her head.

"You don't need to do that."

Elizabeth gasped and spun around. In the pew behind her, a young girl sat, kicking her legs back and forth, smiling brightly. Elizabeth turned, smiling back.

"And why is that?"

"Cause he's gonna be okay," she said with such confidence that Elizabeth was momentarily stunned, "He doesn't want to go there. Not yet, anyway."

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand what you're saying," Elizabeth said.

The girl cocked her head, "You're scarred for him, but you don't have to be. Everything works out like it's supposed to. Mommy told me so."

Scanning the chapel, Elizabeth frowned, "Where is your Mommy?"

She shrugged, "Probably watching over Daddy. She'll be back soon. She says Daddy will be with us one day soon, but not too soon. We have to wait."

Elizabeth stared at the little girl, wondering how someone so young could speak with such understanding, such maturity. The girl grinned wide, and, God, if that smile wasn't familiar to Elizabeth.

"Mommy says Daddy has to stay here a while. He's got things he's got to finish before he finds us again. But that's okay. I can wait."

"Libby."

The girl looked over shoulder. Elizabeth saw a woman in the door way, face hidden by dark hair. She beckoned to the little girl, Libby. Libby hopped off the pew and headed down the aisle to meet her mother. Halfway there, she turned to Elizabeth.

"Take care of him for me, kay?"

She ran to her mother and then both were gone, leaving Elizabeth completely confused and surprisingly at peace. She turned back to the stained glass window and sighed.

"You do work in mysterious ways, don't you?"

* * *

Twelve hours later, with Elizabeth asleep in the empty bed and Peter dozing in the arm chair next to the bed, Neal woke up to a white ceiling and pain. The pain seemed to radiate from every part of him, hot, piercing. He arched his head back and tried to contain the cry welling in his throat, but the pain was overwhelming and it passed over his lips. Something was wailing wildly in the background of the pain.

Peter jumped awake as the machine went off, was completely aware when Neal cried out. He called for the nurse even as he noticed the tight lines of pain around his friend's eyes and mouth. Elizabeth sat upright in time for the nurses and doctor to bombard the room. Peter sat on the edge of her bed and watched while they checked his vitals and administered drugs. Finally, the machine quieted and the doctor told them some mumble jumble Peter didn't hear. All he knew was Neal lying in the bed, no pain on his face, eyes open and searching for him.

"Pet'r?"

Peter was across the room and in his chair while the doctor was still in mid sentence. He was vaguely aware of Elizabeth asking to move the conversation to the hall and the door shutting as he grasped Neal's hand in both of his.

"Neal? Thank God."

Neal searched his friend's face, felt the cast on Peter's wrist and a million questions flooded his mind, but his tongue wasn't quite connected to his brain yet.

"Wha' happ'nd?"

Peter sighed, "It's a long story, buddy. Let's let wait until your stronger, okay?"

Neal nodded weakly then smiled softly, "Knew it'd be you."

Peter felt the guilt Elizabeth had tried so hard to alleviate vanish as Neal's tired eyes drooped close. Peter smiled wide through unbidden tears and pressed their hands to his forehead.

"Get some rest, Neal. I'll be here when you wake up."

He didn't let go of Neal's hand even when he fell asleep an hour later, the pendant clasped tightly between them.


	8. The Cure

**The Cure**

**They visited Kate's grave the morning Neal was released from the hospital. By then, all of the loose ends had been tied in a neat bureaucratic bow. **

**Robert Eppes' body was buried in a nameless plot in a convict cemetery, having no living relative to claim the body. Michael Favor, the young man that orchestrated the entire disaster and Benny Favor's youngest son, was claimed by his older brother James. Michael never got over his father's death or his heart disease, even though he got the surgery all those years earlier. Knowing he was going to die anyway, he roped Eppes into his revenge plot. James is the only survivor of the Favor family, his mother having killed her self years before.**

**The two bodies of the killers were never found, but then, they were two lives no one was likely to miss.**

**Peter and Elizabeth helped Neal over the plots of others' lost loved ones and waited in silence as he visited Kate. But Neal didn't say anything. He only thought about the beach and a white, white shore line.**

**Lisa had visited him once more when he was awake. Neal tried to give her the pendant back, but she wouldn't take it. It was the pendant for Saint Anthony her mother gave her, she said, the saint of lost things and sometimes miracles. She left for her old town the next day.**

**Now, Neal placed the pendant on top of Kate's grave and smiled.**

"**Neal," Elizabeth asked quietly, "are you alright?"**

**He nodded, "I will be. I know she's happy there and I know she'll wait."**

**Elizabeth smiled, gently wrapping her arms around him. Peter placed his hand on his friend's back, careful of the healing injuries.**

"**I know it hurts," Elizabeth said, "but everything works out the way it's supposed to."**

**Peter smiled at his wife's encouraging words, but then frowned. He picked up a second pendant Neal had laid on the ground.**

"**Saint Monica?" he asked.**

**Neal only smiled. Elizabeth took the pendant from her husband, rubbing it with her thumb.**

"**Isn't she the saint of mothers?"**

**Neal smiled sadly, "Kate had a miscarriage nearly four years ago."**

"**Oh, Neal." Elizabeth gasped.**

"**It was supposed to be a girl, at least that's what we were hoping for, but we lost her four months in. Kate was devastated."**

"**I'm sorry, buddy," Peter said sincerely.**

**Neal nodded, "I have to believe that they're together now, and that they'll wait for me."**

"**I think they're doing a lot more than waiting." Peter said, "You've got more than one angel watching your back."**

**Neal grinned. Elizabeth placed the pendant with the other. Frowning, she looked at Neal.**

"**What would you have named her, your baby?"**

"**Liberty."**

**Peter snorted, "How ironic."**

**But Elizabeth had gone pale. Her look went unnoticed as the men turned back towards the car. She stared at the head stone and then past it where she saw a dark haired woman spinning around with a curly haired blond girl. They smiled and waved at her.**

"**El? Are you coming?"**

"**Coming Peter," Elizabeth called absently, but she was smiling at the heavens, "Real mysterious ways."**

**~The End~**


End file.
